


Ravens after Dawn: Stray from Main(stream)

by My_Soul_and_Perfume



Series: Give Me Prompts! [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: #ItsStillBeautiful Fest, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Dance, Hannibal is Not a Cannibal, Hannibal knows how to werk them legs, Will is a Mess, Will is absolutely gorgeous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-16 04:08:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10563396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Soul_and_Perfume/pseuds/My_Soul_and_Perfume
Summary: In a barren wasteland, time stands still. They breathe in the stale, musky air of sweat and grime and regard each other with infatuation.In the distance, two tornadoes head in their direction.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I have absolutely no idea how to input accents, so most of the ballet vocabulary will look plain. Keep in mind that this is 100% choreography and experience taken from my dance world, and that nothing has been copied from some cheesy dance magazine website looking for subscribers. I respect ballet and many other styles, so I hope you will appreciate the time I have put into this. 
> 
> That's all I have to say.
> 
> Critique comments are always welcome!  
> Enjoy!

**Ravens after Dawn**

 

In a barren wasteland, time stands still. They breathe in the stale, musky air of sweat and grime and regard each other with infatuation.

In the distance, two tornadoes head in their direction.

 

They are running out of time.

 

With a screech, the raven flaps its wings, armed with steel feathers. It cranes its neck, red eyes glowing at the approaching threat. Grunting in challenge, the stag grows its antlers high and far, scuffing its hooves across the stubble ground.

Before either beast can charge, the tornadoes sweep them up, just as the sun rises to its full peak after dawn.

* * *

 **Stray from Main(stream)**        

 

       Hannibal cringes, narrowing his eyes at the poorly trained dancers gliding freely over sprung floors. He watches as they struggle to keep up with the music, a person or two forgetting the choreography every few counts.

        He takes them all in, critiques them, judges their every movement; from pas de chats to sissonnes and pique tourne. Not only are they lacking grace, it is like all spirit and devotion to this particular sport has been sucked dry from their souls. _The pressure is starting to take effect_ , he concludes. As the last eight-count comes to a finish, Hannibal prepares himself among his group of male dancers.

**( _Clink_! The staccato of a piano signals their beginning.)**

       He gathers his confidence and passion into the depths of his heart-

       -and lets it explode into glorious stars among the judges.

        He dances, just as he was always meant to, just as he always wanted. Hannibal transitions effortlessly into petite allegro, gathering surplus energy stored only for the this moment and jumps his way through every combination taught. Pas de bourees are no feat for him, neither are assembles or changement; years of training and patience and honing his powerful mind have prepared him for the difficulties that may come. Nobody holds any importance to him, he can't afford to be worried about hurt feelings when the rookies don't get the job. Hannibal wants this. He wants to be here.

       Hannibal catches a few director's gazes upon him, knowing full well why he has captured their attention. When push comes to shove, he must admit:

       This audition feels far too easy.

       So he exposes a little arrogance, but just barely. Behind him, he notices some of the other dancers start to keel over, trying to catch their breath and staunch burning muscles. He on the other hand, stands tall and unfazed. This audition is vigorous, it's fast and a challenge; the combinations are set in a strange order as well. Not to mention that having petite allegro right before adagio is something unheard of and very risky to the body. Hannibal wonders if the judges are trying to choose the better suit. Or suits, in this case, as two scholarship students will be selected.

* * *

 

       As his group finishes up, Hannibal thanks the judges for their time (as a gentleman should) and exits left stage. Some beautiful ballerinas carry their grace to the opposite side; their pointes clumping like an overhead of thunder. For such beautiful shoes crafted of ribbon and sole, they make a lot of noise. Hannibal settles on resting his black shorts and tee clad body in the wings just to make a few potential notes. It is useful to observe other dancers to pick up additional clues as to how the judges react to certain movement; like the way ballerinas hold their core. Are they tilting their pelvis? Can they rise fully onto the pointe shoe box? As for the ballerinos, such as Hannibal, he wants to keep up with technique. Are they rolling through their feet? Are they giving enough plié in order to jump? This may sound boring, but when it comes to scholarships, paying attention is not a sin.

       He waits about half an hour behind the black curtains before the company's accompanist finally packs up his endless supply of classical music into his messenger's bag.

       "Alright everyone! Can I have all of you back on stage!" The lead director asserts. He is a tall, black man with a menacing growl and gap between his from teeth. "Faster!" he snaps. Hannibal suppresses his urge to laugh at the dancer's expressions. In the air he can smell fear, anxiety, blood, and pain. Not uncommon for most company auditions.

       "When I call your number, please step forward." He holds a plain, white paper in front of his eyes and begins to recite each selection.

       "3, 24, 18, 26, 32, 40, 47, 50, 52, and 10." Hannibal steps proudly downstage where the director lay. In the corner of his eyes, he spots the dancers that previously caught his attention standing down the line. Half are females, the other part male.

       "The rest of you, thank you for coming down. Please go pack up." That depressing aura that once clouded the stage dissipates little by little as a sea of unemployed dancers file off stage. When the theater goes quiet, Jack turns to him and his group of acceptations and says:

       "Now for part two." He walks back and forth in front of the single file line of dancers, glaring at each one as he passes by. "The rest of this audition will consist of improvisation and creative movement. You will share one solo, separately, and we will analyze how well you put your body to use. If you read the audition description, you would have seen that no music will be provided or allowed while performing your solo."

       "Not only will we judge you on technique and creativity, we want to see how well you perform without the aid of normal components of dance. In this case, the excluded component is music. There are no counts, ticks, or beats to guide you. It's all," Jack taps his temple, "up here."

       "That's all you need to know, if you didn't already." Hannibal didn't. "Any questions?" He and his group stay silent. Everyone is ready. Everyone is prepared.

       "Okay. Line up in windows. When the music plays then...well you already know. Try not to hurt yourself or anyone else. Go full out, you've made it this far." Finally done with his motivation speech, the director leads himself offstage and sits at a plastic table decorated with a small, flexible lamp with other judges. He queues the technician-

     -and the music begins.

       Modern and contemporary dance do not appeal to Hannibal very much, but he has taken the time to train in the two styles anyway. Modern dance is very underappreciated in the dance world and is always taken for granted. It is not a style you can just learn, no, it needs to connect with your body and soul in order to project the full picture. The same could be said for contemporary, but it is obviously a style of its own. No need to compare.

       And so, Hannibal takes it in his hands to show the judges what this audition means for him through those styles. His movements are sharp and steady, keeping up with ballet technique but remembering to relax his neck, shoulders, head, and spine. He performs a marvelous inversion, transitioning himself onto the floor in fourth position. The biting sting of the noir stage burns his feet like hot coals. Hannibal is sure he will find many floor burns tonight.

       The music is instrumental, not uncommon, and is definitely excelling as far as keeping Hannibal on his toes. The counts range from 3/4 to 6/8, or 4/4 to 8/16. With so many shifts in tempo and dynamic, perfect range of motion is nearly impossible. You can't mix pirouettes with techno; you can't mix sissonnes with waltz.

       As the music comes to a close and Hannibal turns circles around other dancers, he sharpens his focus on the judges, keeping watch on every single person like a snake hissing a lullaby and trapping its prey. He stops, posing, as the music cuts off, and exits stage left when they give an all-clear sign.

        Backstage, Hannibal nods in respect to the other performers at their commitment. However, one person seems to have evacuated their small group. Hannibal recalls the numbers the director called out and notices that dancer #3 has gone missing. Strange, Hannibal remembers seeing him on stage just now.

       Before he can make any assumptions, the director calls them back. He asks for volunteers to go first for the solo section; Hannibal is interrupted once again as he raises his hand, another stealing his moment of triumph.

       "Number three. Okay, you're up first." Jack announces.

       A beautiful, pale skinned man about the same height as Hannibal, with short, curly hair colored brown steps up from the line. His eyes, though Hannibal cannot see them, glint in the pale spotlight. His body is a beautiful build, wrapped skin-tight in a white shirt and black tights.

       Simply,

       Beautiful.

       Hannibal finds himself staring more than watching the marvelous number three as they back into the wings. He announces that his solo is a modern piece and prepares himself backstage.

       Right. Next. To. Hannibal.

      The man takes off, running across stage with fervor. Residue rosin billows like mist around him, cloaking number three in a beautiful shadow of white. He tumbles on his knees and falls to the floor, rolling onto his back. From there, Hannibal automatically knows that this man will be accepted; his movement consists of pure instinct, like a wild animal. He twitches his hands, cranes his neck, directing his ocean-blue eyes onto everyone and everything-

       -and leaps.

       Number three leaps and sores so high that even Hannibal believes he is watching an illusionist's work. Graceful turns, long and muscular thighs supporting his weight in a series of second turns; his technique is never once displaced.

       And then-

       Hannibal feels as if he might cry-

       The most gorgeous stag leap he has every laid eyes on.

        It is like number three's torso is so flexible that he can mimic that of a deer-in-the-headlights image. His legs are beautifully tucked at his waist, bent as flat as a tabletop. As number three lands softly, he performs one last pirouette and bows the judges. The stage is nothing but silent as he departs.

       "Next." Jack barks. Hannibal briskly walks back on stage before anyone else.

      "I will be performing a modern-ballet solo." Hannibal announces. He allows the judges to write down a few notes before turning his back to the 'audience'.

        Immediately, he pictures himself back at home in Lithuania out in the endless, grassy fields. There is no sound, just a gentle breeze that caresses his naked flesh. As the wind sways him, Hannibal performs his first movement; a simple twist of the wrists. He sweeps his hand over-head, painting an imaginary rainbow of complex rubies, lilacs, and sunset oranges. He pivots on two feet, twisting his back and combres with a perfect arch.

       Then, as slow as a sloth, Hannibal guides himself to the floor, still arching, and plants his heels firmly into the ground. From there his performance picks up the pace. In Hannibal's mind palace, he paints an imaginary enemy; a large raven stag with razor edge antlers and feathers. The beast comes charging at him. Hannibal dodges, rolling away on his side and jumping onto his feet.

        He continues on, charging at the beast in a series of glissades, kicking the stag in its jaw with a sissonne. Hannibal chasses into a tour jete, effortlessly dodging the beast as it snaps at him with its teeth. Too bad for the stag, he has left himself open for another attack. Hannibal doesn't waste a second; he prepares for foutes, planting his feet in fourth position and stabbing the animal in its ribcage while opening into second. His arms join in the assault as he returns to passé, slamming the stag with his fists.

      Foute after foute, the beast finally drops to the ground; it whines pitifully. It melts into the grass in a puddle of inky black blood. Hannibal's palace returns to its serene aura once again. To celebrate his victory of ridding the beast, Hannibal continues his dance in freestyle, rolling in the grass, scrunching piles of soil into his hands, praising the endlessly blue sky. He sways and swings, slides and jumps, reaching toward the heavens.

       Finally, as he grows satisfied with his world, Hannibal sinks to his knees-

       -and smiles.

* * *

 

        Stage lights burn his eyes, he can feel his knees smoking and covered in tender sores. Returning back to reality, Hannibal stands to take his bow and allows the judges time to make note of their observations. All of them have content smiles on their face, even the domineering director who once had a snarl on his lips. Jack nods his head at Hannibal, dismissing him.

       From the wings, number three stares in awe at number ten. His performance was...

       Surreal? Deliciously realistic? Raw? Powerful?

       Any of those could work, but don't seem to describe it enough. He spares a glance toward number ten, not bothering to hide his adoration for the dancer. Hannibal nods in return and loiters next to him for the time being.

       "Will Graham." he introduces.

       "Hannibal Lecter." Will quirks an eyebrow at the strangely fitting name.

       "You have very interesting choreography."

       Hannibal hears no mocking in his words. "Most of my work reflects off of my mind palace."

      "What did you see? In your mind palace, I mean."

     "A beast."

      Will considers that for a moment, final pieces clicking into place. To have such creativity means that Hannibal must obtain a very mature mind. His foutes were absolutely perfect and gorgeous; he could see every muscle clenched into place.

       "The stag." Snapping his attention away from analysis, Will stares in confusion at Hannibal. He averts his eyes away quickly.

        "The stag leap that you did was absolutely marvelous." Hannibal praises. He steps closer to Will. "You looked wild, beastly. It was like you were depending solely on survival instinct."

       Will isn't sure how to respond. "Where did you train to obtain such skill?"

       "A theater in Harlem, New York. I studied at Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater."

     "Quite a mouthful."

       "Quite." Will agrees. He rubs at his eyes, accidently swooping under as if his glasses were still there. "And you?"

       "I have trained at American Ballet Theater for many years. I was hoping for this place to be my new beginning."

       "Was?"

       "Well, with all of this competition, I'm not sure I will be accepted."

       Will scoffs, "Trust me. You'll get a scholarship."

       "And you?"

       "What about me?"

       "Do you believe you will succeed?" Will doesn't answer his question. Sweat is pouring like a stream down his face and neck.

       "So what made you chose this company?" The curly haired dancer sways on his feet a little. He lowers himself to the ground to retrieve some water.

       "This place is very culturally grounded. I believe this is a far better home for me."

       Home. Not 'place'. Not 'company'. Home. Will nods his head in understanding. "The same goes for me. Too many dance companies nowadays are really...mainstream. It's always The Nutcracker or Firebird or Swan Lake. But this place, there's some sort of rustic charm about it."

       "I agree."

        The two dancers continue chatting after that, solacing in each other's company. They talk about annoying misconceptions in the dance world that are fizzling the spirit out of other performers. It's sad, really, how many people have stereotyped dance as an full time anorexic lifestyle.

* * *

 

       Jack calls everyone on stage for the final time. Everybody stands patiently, awaiting their final judgement.

       "Before I call out your numbers, please know that every one of you is exceptionally talented. All of you are special, and I'm sure you have reasons for being here. However, there are only two spots open for this company. We will be sure to write a letter of recommendation to your second choice school to give you an even better chance at finding the right home for you." The director pauses to let his words sink in a moment.

       "Numbers three and ten. Please step forward." Inside his ribcage, Hannibal's heart flutters sporadically. He steps forward, side by side with Will and swallows back his giddiness.

        "The rest of you are excused. Thank you for your time." Solemnly, the other eight dancers exit stage. A few have tears streaming down their face, others swallowing their pride and painting a blank mask.

       "Congratulations Will and Hannibal! You are now scholarship students of Le Theatre du Culture. Your dorm rooms and schedules will be given to you tomorrow morning, or if you prefer, right now."

       "If I may ask what time it is..."

       "Just a little after 3:30."

       "Then I would like to move in as soon as possible. Thank you."

       "Will?"

       The ballerino jumps slightly. He runs his hand through thick curls, trying to soothe a growing migraine. "Today is fine with me. Thank you so much."

       "My pleasure. Go home and rest a little bit. Call us when you're ready and we'll have someone ready to pick you up." Just as Jack walks away, Will speaks up. This question has been nagging him for a while.

        "...What made you choose us?"

       The director smirks and says, "Neither of you were prepared." He disappears upstage, packing up his papers and exiting the auditorium.

       "How the Hell..." Will mutters. "You didn't choreograph an actual solo did you?"

       "No. I am assuming neither did you."

       "Nope." Will sighs. He begins to laugh at the irony of it all. "I guess the rumors were true. He really does know everything." Hannibal and Will grab their bags from the wings and exit the auditorium as well. Hannibal sprays on a fair amount of dry deodorant, before sipping at his bottled water.

       "Not everything." he finally answers.

**Author's Note:**

> How did I do?


End file.
